


I learned to live half a life (who do you think you are)

by TardisIsTheOnlyWayToTravel



Category: Sherlock (TV), Young Wizards - Diane Duane
Genre: 'The Great Game' with bonus wizardry, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-15
Updated: 2013-09-15
Packaged: 2017-12-26 15:04:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 9
Words: 12,523
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/967354
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TardisIsTheOnlyWayToTravel/pseuds/TardisIsTheOnlyWayToTravel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The book on John's bookcase said <i>So You Want To Be a Wizard.</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Journey's Dawn](https://archiveofourown.org/external_works/198334) by ameretrifle. 



> All you really need to know about Young Wizards is that a wizard's duty is to combat entropy in all its forms, including destruction and death (doing this is called being on errantry). Entropy was introduced to the universe by the Lone Power, which is basically the devil. Sometimes wizards end up facing th Lone Power while on errantry; also, the Lone Power can possess people. Finally, 'Timeheart' is basically heaven.
> 
> This is basically a self-indulgent fic I wrote for my own amusement, guys. No guarantee of quality here. I might rewrite this at some point, but yeah.
> 
> ETA 15 Oct 2016: At least one major element to this story (see end notes) was borrowed from ameretrifle's _Journey's Dawn._ Honestly, I feel really uncomfortable with this fic now, with the amount it borrows from that story; the only reason I haven't taken it down is because people really seemed to like it and I don't want to disappoint anyone. However, I advise all of you to go and read the story that inspired this: it's a Doctor Who/Young Wizards fic which is much, much better than this story.

John was out, and Sherlock was taking advantage of his absence to look through his things.

Sherlock did this occasionally: an analysis of John’s possessions sometimes gave him new data on his flatmate. Also, Sherlock was bored, and curious.

Sherlock frowned. Wedged in between two large medical texts was an old, worn-looking cloth-bound book. The lettering had started to wear off, but printed in small letters on the spine was the title, ‘ _SO YOU WANT TO BE A WIZARD_.’ 

It seemed an odd thing for John to possess, particularly given how few possessions he actually had, and his general lack of interest in fantasy novels. Perhaps it had been a gift from someone important to John?

Feeling curious, Sherlock pulled the book down off the shelf and flipped it open, handling the old pages carefully. The book was in fairly good condition despite its obvious age, further confirming its value to John.

A look at the contents page made Sherlock’s eyebrows raise in surprise. He’d expected something… more stereotypical of the fantasy genre, despite the cutesy title, but instead, the contents page was full of chapter titles like _‘Preliminary Determinations: A Question of Aptitude,’_ and _‘Psychotropic Spelling,’_ which hardly seemed designed to draw in the average reader. His interest piqued, Sherlock turned to the first chapter. As he skimmed it, he noted that the book read more like a scholarly treatise than a work of fiction, and in spite of himself, Sherlock was mildly fascinated.

Near the beginning of the first chapter was a list of appropriately wizardly characteristics that an individual might possess. Sherlock hesitated, and then, silently resolving never to tell John or anyone else that he had don so, he went through the list looking for qualities that described him. He was quietly pleased, in spite of himself, to find that he had a number of the qualities on the list. He moved on, quirking an eyebrow at the mention of slowing down the death of the universe – absurd, of course, nothing could slow entropy, but it was an entertaining idea all the same – and moved onto the next chapter, about the history and philosophy of wizardry.

When Sherlock got to the Wizard’s Oath, however, he stopped, short, staring down at the page.

_ In Life’s name, and for Life’s sake,  _ the Oath read, _I say that I will use the Art for nothing but the service of that Life. I will guard growth and ease pain. I will fight to preserve what grows and lives well in its own way; and I will change no object or creature unless its growth and life, or that of the system of which it is part, are threatened. To these ends, in the practice of my Art, I will put aside fear for courage, and death for life, when it is right to do so – ‘til Universe’s end._

Until now, Sherlock had assumed that it was all a quaint joke, an odd form of entertainment, but looking at the Oath, something tugged at him, telling him that he should take the Oath seriously even as it struck him as vaguely familiar.

Sherlock frowned and closed his eyes, searching for the reason behind that feeling. He moved into his mind palace, looking for the source of familiarity, but his search was abruptly cut short as he found himself looking at a large, heavy wooden chest with an equally heavy iron lock. A lock for which Sherlock knew, immediately, he had no key.

Sherlock’s eyes flew open in surprise. He’d deleted things from his mind palace before, of course, but _locking them away?_ He couldn’t remember ever doing such a thing – although of course that didn’t mean much, since it made sense to make himself forget that he had deliberately forgotten something. Sherlock thought hard about the locked chest in his mind palace, but was none the wiser; the chest was effectively impenetrable. But now that he knew that the chest was there, thinking about it brought with it a rush of wistful feelings, a sense of aching pain, and a deep sorrow at the bottom of his heart for no reason he could name. It was, Sherlock realised, an emotion he was accustomed to feeling, one he was so used to pushing aside that he no longer even noticed it anymore. The realisation was a disturbing one.

Sherlock looked back at John’s book. It was still open to the page with the Oath.

Sherlock took a moment to debate with himself. One the one hand, the whole concept was ridiculous: wizards! _Magic!_ Complete nonsense. But another part of him – a small, quiet voice that was used to being summarily silenced the moment it spoke up – asked: _But what if it were real?_

Sherlock stared at the book for a long time. Then he read the Oath aloud, feeling strangely self-conscious, and vaguely foolish. But he read it through to the end without stopping, and when he was done, he put John’s book back on the shelf where he’d found it.

Feeling odd, Sherlock went to check on his experiments, putting the book and the locked chest in his mind palace aside.

For now, at least.

* * *

Sherlock slept late the next morning, and only woke up because John was bothering him.

“Sherlock,” John said, annoyance in his voice, “ _wake up_.” He’d obviously been trying to rouse Sherlock for a while.

Sherlock deigned to open one eye and scowled petulantly at his flatmate. John was holding a large parcel, which… was for Sherlock?

Sherlock sat up, blinking and bringing himself to alertness as he scrutinised the box, taking it from John.

“No return address,” he murmured to himself, turning the box over. Then, nodding to himself, he tore open the packaging.

Inside, wrapped in clear plastic and a metre or so of bubble wrap, was a Macbook. No, Sherlock, corrected himself immediately, not a Macbook – although the computer was very similar in design, the Apple logo was wrong. Where the logo _should_ have been a depiction of an apple with a bite taken out of it, the Apple logo on the not-a-Macbook was pristine and whole.

“Oh Jesus Christ,” said John, staring at it. “That’s a _manual._ ”

“Explain,” Sherlock ordered, glancing at him. John’s face was a picture, full of conflicting emotions of which dismay and chagrin were most prominent. As Sherlock watched, John rubbed at his face, shoulders slumping in the resigned way they always did when he realised that Sherlock had _done_ something.

“You read my wizard manual, didn’t you,” John said wearily.

“ _So You Want To Be a Wizard?_ Yes.”

“ _Why?_ ” John demanded. “Why on _earth_ would you take the Oath?”

Sherlock opened his mouth to reply, the response on the tip of his tongue – and stopped.

“I don’t know,” he said, irritated with himself. “I suppose it’s related to the locked chest in my mind palace.”

“The what?” John asked, looking confused.

Sherlock rolled his eyes in irritation, but explained all the same.

“There’s a locked chest in my mind palace,” he said in frustration. “I only noticed yesterday. It’s related to this _wizard_ business somehow, I know it is, but I don’t have the _key._ ” Sherlock let out a great sigh that expressed his aggravation with the entire affair. 

“Wait.” John looked tense all of a sudden, his brow furrowed. “It’s related to wizardry? You’re sure?”

“Positive.” Sherlock glanced back at the not-a-Macbook – his wizard manual, apparently. “You said that this is a wizard manual? Why isn’t it a book like yours?”

“They didn’t have them available as anything but books when I got mine,” John said absently. He looked like he was thinking hard about something. “Besides, I’m not good enough with computers. I suppose you _would_ be the sort who’s best at programming spells this way. They probably thought you’d find it easier.” He still looked like he was thinking of something else.

“What?” Sherlock demanded. “What are you thinking about? Tell me.”

John shook his head.

“I shouldn’t.” He looked torn.

“Why not?” Sherlock persisted. “ _John_.”

But John looked stubborn, and shook his head.

“No, Sherlock. If I’m right – well, if I’m right, you’ll find out soon enough anyway, and if I’m wrong it doesn’t matter. But either way, I can’t tell you. It’s a wizard thing.”

Sherlock glared at him, but John refused to budge, even when Sherlock pestered him. His mouth simply set in a firm line, his eyes narrowed, so Sherlock gave up, and went back to the wizard manual.

He was about to turn it on when his mobile beeped, signalling a text. Sherlock frowned at the distraction, but his eyes brightened when he saw that the message was from Lestrade.

“John!” he called, vaulting over the back of the couch in his dressing gown and heading up to his room to get dressed, while John yelped something about _Christ wear underwear if you’re going to do that!_ “We have a case!”  
 


	2. Chapter 2

The case proved to be one of those cases that the police hated: two people murdered in a room that had been locked from the inside, and the windows all sealed.

Sherlock, as usual, began examining the crime scene, speaking his deductions aloud as he went, and bent to examine the bodies.

A moment later John joined him where he was kneeling next to one of the cadavers.

“Sherlock, can you… convince everyone to leave, for a few minutes?” John asked under his breath so no one else could hear.

Sherlock looked at him. John was wearing a deliberately calm expression, but his eyes were shifty. Interesting. Sherlock wondered what he was planning.

Sherlock straightened, and got to his feet.

“Lestrade,” he said brusquely. “I need everyone out of here for a minute.”

“What? Why?” the DI immediately demanded, eyeing Sherlock suspiciously.

“It’s necessary,” said Sherlock. He added reluctantly, “Please.”

Lestrade eyed him for a moment, but sighed and nodded in agreement.

“Alright, but don’t disturb the crime scene while I’m gone. John! Don’t let him take anything while we’re out of the room. Alright, you lot, everyone needs to clear out for a moment!”

There was some grumbling and several pairs of eye were rolled, but the forensics team and police officers all vacated the room.

Sherlock shut the door behind them, and looked at John.

“Well?”

“Right.” John straightened, and cleared his throat. Looking self-conscious, he began to speak, to all intents and appearances, to the tiny pot plant on the windowsill.

_ *Um, hello,*  _ said John. _*Listen, my friend and I are trying to catch the person who murdered these two people. Were you aware of the murder happening?*_

Sherlock blinked. None of that had been spoken in English, and yet he had understood John perfectly. Fascinating. Was this a wizard thing?

The thought was driven out of Sherlock’s mind when, to Sherlock’s utter astonishment, the pot plant _answered back._

_ *I was here when it happened,*  _ the plant confirmed sadly. _*It was horrible.*_

Sherlock, for once in his life, was speechless.

John, on the other hand, was acting as though talking plants were an everyday occurrence.

_ *Murder always is,*  _ John told the pot plant sombrely. _*I’m sorry you had to witness it. Ah, I don’t suppose you happen to know how the killer escaped this room?*_

_ *Oh yes!*  _ The plant’s leaves waved slightly in its eagerness to answer. _*He went up through the ceiling!*_

Sherlock and John both looked upwards at the same time. Sherlock’s eyes scanned the ceiling, looking for the tell-tale sign of a manhole or something similar.

_ *Thank you for telling me,*  _ John thanked the plant politely. _*That’s really helpful.*_

_ *I’m glad,*  _ the plant said simply, and resumed its former silence.

“Oi!” Lestrade stuck his head inside the room. “You done yet?”

“Yes, yes, thank you,” Sherlock said absently. “Your murderer escaped through the ceiling. At least…” Sherlock thought it through. “He tried to.”

“Did you just _thank_ me?” Lestrade goggled a bit.

“What do you mean, he _tried?_ ” John, at least, was focusing on the pertinent issue. Sherlock approved.

“Yes, Lestrade, I thanked you, but if it discombobulates you that much I won’t do it again,” Sherlock drawled sardonically. “To answer your question, John: the murderer decided to hide in the ceiling until after the crime scene was processed, once it was deserted, intending to escape then. Unfortunately, I think you’ll find that the ceiling space is not particularly well-ventilated, and the building was fumigated recently.”

“You mean…?” John’s face dawned with realisation.

“The forensics team very likely have three bodies to deal with, not two,” Sherlock confirmed.

“Jesus Christ.” Lestrade looked vaguely sick. “Right, we’ll send someone up to take a look. Thanks, Sherlock.”

“You’re quite welcome,” Sherlock said on impulse, and was rewarded with another surprised look. “Come along, John. Back to Baker St. I have a manual to acquaint myself with.”

“Of course,” John sighed, but followed after him.

* * *

After half an hour of dealing with the active manual, Sherlock was bewildered by the impossibilities he kept encountering. He and John were wizards, magic was real, and oh yes, apparently his wizard’s manual was sentient.

Sherlock decided that perhaps, after all, he should have left the manual passive.

“How can you be sentient?” he demanded.

“They’re artificial intelligence, I think,” said John. “I don’t know the particulars, but I think there was alien technology involved at some point. Except, they really are alive, not just a semblance of life.”

“And you’re supposed to help me do magic?” Sherlock asked the manual dubiously. “You’re not exactly easy to carry around in a hurry, are you?” 

The manual made a sound very like a disdainful sniff.

“Neither are _you_ , I’m sure.”

John was surprised into giggles.

“My God, it sounds like _you!_ ” he proclaimed, amused.

“Oh, shut up,” Sherlock said, annoyed. He shot a glare at the computer. He got the feeling that if it could have, the computer might have been glaring back.

“Look,” said John, “you know how spells are basically calculations, in the Speech? Well, as I understand it, the computer manuals can do some of the calculations for you, or you can program certain spells into it to run later.”

“Essentially correct,” agreed Sherlock’s manual.

“Hmm.” Sherlock narrowed his eyes at it. “Would you be able to perform a teleportation spell, if I asked?”

“Of course,” said the manual.

“Oh, God,” said John. “What are you thinking of?”

“I was simply thinking of how useful it would be in my line of work to be able to teleport to different locations occasionally,” Sherlock replied. He paused for a beat. “Although I was also considering how easy it might be to teleport a slice of cake to the middle of Mycroft’s desk.”

John snorted, but said, “I’m pretty sure that counts as a misuse of wizardry, Sherlock.”

“Hm. Pity.”

John’s amused smile segued into a less light-hearted expression.

“Wizardry isn’t all fun and games, you know. It’s a responsibility, as well.”

“So I gathered,” Sherlock conceded.

“Sometime, probably very soon, you’re going to be sent out on Ordeal,” John added.

“On what?”

“Ordeal,” John repeated patiently, looking very serious. “It’s sort of a test of a wizard’s commitment and, I don’t know, moral strength. How it works is that a wizard is sent out to deal with a problem that they’re the best person to fix.”

“Sounds simple,” said Sherlock, considering the idea. Didn’t he do that all the time?

“It isn’t,” John responded emphatically. “It’s always dangerous, and you might not even realise that it’s happening until it’s over, although the manual will tell you if you check. What worries me is that an Ordeal is always the hardest thing you’ve ever faced, and considering some of the cases you’ve had, Sherlock… whatever your Ordeal is going to be, I expect it’s going to be bigger and harder than anything you’ve ever done. So I want you to promise me that you’ll be careful, alright?”

Sherlock gave John a long look. John was genuinely concerned, and a lot more agitated than he wanted to let on.

“Fine,” Sherlock conceded. “I’ll be careful.”

John let out a long exhale.

“That’s all I ask. But bear in mind, your Ordeal won’t only be testing your strengths, it’ll be testing your weaknesses, too.”

“I’ll remember,” Sherlock promised.


	3. Chapter 3

Over the next few days, Sherlock became thoroughly acquainted with wizardry, and devoted himself to it with the same intensity he reserved for other subjects of study he found interesting. He learnt as much of the wizardly Speech as possible, and began memorising and practicing spells in his spare time, taking to them with what John said was unusual swiftness. To Sherlock, the whole wizardry business – spells and Speech included – felt oddly _right,_ in the same way as detecting or playing the violin: it simply came naturally. All of the spells were strangely easy, and Sherlock was soon speaking the Speech on instinct, as though some part of him deep down had always known it.

Sherlock felt happier than he could ever remember being in his life.

“It’s unheard of to become a wizard at your age, you know,” John told him, when he found Sherlock undertaking a scientific study of tea cup levitation.

“Oh?” Sherlock asked, only half-paying attention.

“Yeah. Normally it happens about puberty. I mean, there’s some variation, obviously, some people become wizards earlier or later, but they’re always underage. I can’t even name another wizard who became one as an adult.”

Sherlock looked up at that, giving John his full attention.

“Really? Not one?”

“Not a one,” John agreed. “It’s – most adults are too set in their ways and their ideas of what’s possible and what’s not, you see. Kids are still open-minded to accept that magic is real and that it _works_. Adults tend to think about how it’s impossible or violates physical laws.”

“Well, obviously it works, so clearly, the laws of physics are flawed somehow,” Sherlock said, frowning. “Or require adjustment to make allowances for the existence of magic. Magic seems to work according to a set of consistent rules, so in that way at least, it is empirically verifiable.” His data sets all indicated as much, as did the information in the manual itself.

“See, that’s exactly it,” John waved a hand at him, “you’ve decided that the laws of physics must be wrong, instead of just deciding that the whole magic business is rubbish, like most people would.”

“As I’ve said before, I’m hardly most people, John.”

“You’re really not,” John agreed. He sounded fond. “Feel like a cuppa?”

“Please,” Sherlock agreed, going back to his levitation experiments.

* * *

Then, one morning, the building across the street from 221 Baker St exploded.

John was out, and Sherlock was far enough away from the windows that he was left more or less unharmed when 221B’s windows blew in from the shockwave.

Really, the explosion was far less distressing than the fact that Mycroft turned up not too long afterwards.

“What do you want?” Sherlock demanded. Mycroft looked reproving.

“Perhaps I wished to see for myself that you were unhurt,” he asked archly.

“I’m fine. See? Now go away,” said Sherlock. Mycroft stayed where he was. “Why are you still here?”

Mycroft sighed, a long-suffering, pained, dramatic sigh that Sherlock ignored in favour of glaring at his brother.

“Can’t you even, for a moment, bother to put up a _pretence_ of amicability?” Mycroft asked.

Sherlock didn’t miss a beat.

“No.”

“Very well.” Mycroft produced a folder from his briefcase. “I have a case that I want you to take.”

“No.” Again, Sherlock didn’t pause.

Mycroft continued on as though he hadn’t heard.

“A public servant was found dead on the tracks at Battersea Station this morning with his head smashed in. He _should_ have been carrying a memory stick with the plans for the new M.O.D. missile defense system. I want you to investigate.”

“Why should I?” Sherlock drawled, half to annoy his brother, and half out of genuine curiosity.

Mycroft shot him a look.

“This is of national importance, Sherlock, I’m sure that even you can see that. And solving crime is, after all, your ‘bailiwick’.” 

Sherlock scowled, and considered.

While it was true that he felt a lot more agreeable these days, that didn’t mean that Sherlock wanted to please Mycroft. But he remembered John’s words about an Ordeal, and sighed. While it seemed unlikely that Mycroft’s problem had anything to do with some inevitable test of Sherlock’s wizardry, he couldn’t be _completely_ certain.

Besides, he had to admit it sounded interesting.

“Oh, fine,” he grumbled. “I suppose I’ll look into in when I have the time.”

Mycroft looked faintly surprised at the easy capitulation, and narrowed his eyes suspiciously. That made Sherlock feel a little better.

Mycroft stood, leaving the folder on the coffee table. He glanced up at the same time as Sherlock, as there were rushed footsteps on the stairs.

“Sherlock! Sherlock!” Sherlock heard John call. His flatmate burst through the door, and looked utterly relieved to see him, although he looked taken aback to see Mycroft there as well.  

Sherlock sympathised. He wasn’t glad of Mycroft’s presence, either. 

“John,” Mycroft nodded to John politely as he headed towards the door. John waited until he was gone to speak.

Are you alright?” John exclaimed. His wizard’s manual was open in his hand. “I saw it on the telly – but take a look –”

John pointed at the open page, holding the manual out so that Sherlock could see.

Sherlock looked. Beneath his own name was the phrase, _‘On Ordeal.’_

He stared at it.

“What’s going on?” John asked, looking worried. “What did your brother want?”

“To bother me, why else does he ever visit?” Sherlock replied. “Someone’s been naughty and lost a memory stick with some top-secret plans on it. They also happen to be dead.”

“Do you think that’s your Ordeal, then?” John asked warily, as though that seemed too easy.

“Perhaps. But the explosion was earlier.”

“When did Mycroft stop by?” John wondered, brow furrowing in thought. “The manual’s been showing you as on Ordeal for at least twenty minutes, because that was when I checked.” He looked a little awkward, and Sherlock knew that John had checked the manual to see if he was still alive.

“About fifteen minutes ago,” Sherlock sniffed disdainfully.

“So after you went on Ordeal, then,” John concluded. “Still, that doesn’t mean anything. The timing doesn’t always match up exactly with events.”

“How helpful,” Sherlock muttered sarcastically. His phone rang, and Sherlock answered it. “Sherlock Holmes.”

“ _Can you get down here?_ ” Lestrade sounded harassed. “ _Someone’s sent us a package with your name on it, and something funny’s going on.”_

“Of course,” said Sherlock. “How could I refuse?” He hung up before Lestrade could reply.

“Come on,” Sherlock told John. He grabbed his coat and headed for the door, ignoring the crunch of broken glass under his feet. “Case. Under the circumstances, we shouldn’t delay.”

“Wait, where are we going?” John asked, already grabbing his own jacket from where it was hanging over the back of a chair.

“The Yard,” Sherlock explained, pausing just outside the door. “Apparently there’s a package with my name on it.” He dashed down the stairs without waiting for John.

* * *

It turned out that the gas explosion hadn’t been a gas explosion after all, but had only been clever rigged to resemble one. About the only object _not_ destroyed in the explosion had been a strong box, with a single object inside it: a postage envelope, addressed to Sherlock Holmes.

Inside was a pink phone, the same model as the phone from what John referred to as the Study in Pink case.

“Well, obviously it’s not the same phone,” Sherlock explained, when Lestrade asked, “but it’s supposed to look like...” Sherlock paused. Lestrade had used that exact phrase, ‘Study in Pink.’ “‘The Study in Pink?’ You read his blog?” 

“Of course I read his blog!” Lestrade responded. “We _all_ do. Do you _really_ not know that the Earth goes round the Sun?”

Sherlock glared as Donovan sniggered. John looked embarrassed and apologetic.

“Of course I do,” Sherlock snapped. “I can also name a number of stars and planets both within and outside our solar system, if you find that relevant.” The day before John had taken Sherlock to the Crossings, a sort of galactic airport for alien species, and Sherlock had memorised the names of several interesting places he wanted to visit in the future.

Lestrade only looked a little abashed, and grinned at Sherlock. Sherlock ignored the grin, and went back to his deductions about the phone.

“It isn’t the same phone. This one’s brand new,” Sherlock told John, who was listening as attentively as he always did. “Someone’s gone to a lot of trouble to make it look like the same phone, which means your blog has a far wider readership.” Sherlock couldn’t help the accusatory look, and John shifted uncomfortably, trying to ignore it.

Sherlock did the logical next thing, and turned the phone on.

“ _You have one new message_ ,” announced the phone. No message played, however: only the sound of the Greenwich Pips. Frowning, Sherlock checked the phone for any other data, but the only uploaded material was a single photograph.

Sherlock recognised the room in the photograph immediately. It was 221C Baker Street.


	4. Chapter 4

The flat downstairs from Sherlock’s, when he, John and Lestrade went to investigate, was empty but for a pair of shoes. Sherlock started to walk towards them.

“He’s a bomber, remember,” John cautioned, and Sherlock paused, considered, and continued walking forward.

He was carefully examining the shoes when the pink phone rang from his pocket. Sherlock jumped, and then was immediately irritated with himself for the moment of fright. He straightened and answered the phone.

“Hello?”

“ _H-hello... sexy_ ,” a tearful voice choked out.

“Who’s this?” Sherlock demanded.

“ _I’ve… sent you.. .a little puzzle... just to say hi_ ,” the woman continued, without answering him. Sherlock’s mind raced. Whoever it was, they were clearly under duress.

“Who’s talking? Why are you crying?” he asked, hoping for further data.

“ _I-I’m not... crying... I’m typing_ ,” the woman on the phone said, her voice wobbling, “ _and this... stupid... bitch... is reading it out_.”

Moriarty, Sherlock thought. It had to be.

“ _Twelve hours to solve... my puzzle, Sherlock… or I’m going... to be... so naughty_ ,” the woman finished, and the phone call went dead.

Frowning, Sherlock took another look at the shoes, and thought about how John had talked to the pot plant during their last case.

“Lestrade, can you leave us alone for a minute?”

“Oh for Christ’s sake, is this going to become a habit?” the DI complained, but obediently stepped outside and shut the door. Sherlock immediately looked to John.

“You can talk to plants,” said Sherlock. “What about inanimate objects?”

“I’m not really good with inanimate objects,” John said in apology, and Sherlock felt disappointed. “I’m better with living things. _You_ might be able to talk to it, though. Go on. See if it works.”

Sherlock looked dubiously at the pair of shoes, but decided that it was worth a go. He focused all his concentration on the shoes, willing this to work.

_ *Greetings,*  _ he told the shoes using the Speech. _*Can you tell me who you belonged to?*_

There was no response. Sherlock took another close look at the shoes, taking in further details.

_ *Come on,*  _ he said. _*There was a boy. He loved you very much, and cared for you the best he could. Wore you everywhere, I’ll bet. But something bad happened to him. We’re trying to figure out what happened to him, and who did it. Please. We want to help.*_

There was no response, and Sherlock sat back. Well, they’d simply have to try more conventional methods – 

_ *Carl Powers,*  _ said the shoes, in the faintest whisper Sherlock had ever heard.

Sherlock jolted, the name sounding familiar, and something came loose in his head, like the tumblers in a lock.

As he looked at the shoes, everything slid back into place, because the shoes – the Carl Powers case – were the key to the locked chest in his mind palace. And now that Sherlock was thinking about it for the first time in years – truly thinking about it – and had access to magic, the lid of the chest smoothly opened and Sherlock remembered _everything_.

* * *

Sherlock had been a wizard once before. 

He’d been eight years old when he found the manual in among his father’s things, a handsomely-bound volume sitting on the shelf above his father’s desk. Sherlock at that age had been very curious, getting into everything that wasn’t locked away, and very interested in fairy stories. He was interested in science as well, of course, but he was still young enough to regard it as just another form of truth, instead of as a rigid and uncompromising set of laws binding everything in the universe. His father always indulged his love of fantastic tales of magic and adventure; sometimes he used to read to Sherlock before bedtime, from books like _The Hobbit_ and _A Wrinkle in Time_ and the works of C.S. Lewis. Sherlock sucked them all up like a sponge, enchanted by the worlds they portrayed.

So when Sherlock found his father’s copy of the manual, it didn’t seem particularly odd or untrue: it made perfect sense that wizards existed, when there were so many stories about them, and who could possibly make a better wizard than Sherlock’s father? When Sherlock reached the page with the Oath he recited it solemnly, his eyes shining with excitement, convinced he was about to enter a life of high adventure and important deeds.

And he had. Sherlock’s father had simply been resigned, presenting Sherlock with his own copy of the manual with a wry smile, offering a guiding influence and good advice as Sherlock went off into danger, again and again. At first Sherlock went about wizardry on his own, as he did with everything, but he soon met a girl about his own age who was reasonably bright and sensible, and after they’d been through a few adventures together they became fast friends. Molly was kind and understanding, and always patient with Sherlock, and had a way of understanding how other people worked that Sherlock envied. Sherlock didn’t have any other friends, but that didn’t matter: he had his father and Molly and Mycroft to do experiments with in the holidays, and he was _happy._

Then, when Sherlock was fourteen, Carl Powers had been murdered.

Sherlock had read about the mysterious death in the paper, and the case had sparked his curiosity. People died, sometimes, during wizardry, he knew all too well; he’d been a wizard for years by then, and he’d already seen people die. But Carl Powers hadn’t been doing anything dangerous; all he’d been doing was _swimming,_ and something had killed him. People Sherlock’s age weren’t supposed to die like that, Sherlock knew. So, being the boy he was, he went off to investigate.

Sherlock soon worked out that something was wrong, and that Carl Powers’ death was more than a tragic accident, but no one had listened to him. He was just a boy, or he was too young, or he’d been ‘reading too many detective stories’ – no matter how he tried, Sherlock couldn’t get anyone to believe him.

Sherlock had been so angry, so very, very angry. He’d never felt helpless like this before, never felt this frustrated, bone-deep rage except when faced with the Lone Power, and even then he’d managed to find a solution. He’d done so many things that were dangerous and clever, and faced situations and entities that would give an adult nightmares. But when it came to ordinary, everyday things, the fact that he wasn’t an adult suddenly mattered, and Sherlock’s wizardry counted for _nothing._

Sherlock felt furious and bitter over this, but he probably would have gotten over it in time, if it hadn’t been for the fact that his father had died of a heart attack only a couple of months later, while Sherlock was away at school. He could remember sitting in the church at the funeral, in an uncomfortable suit that was itchy and slightly too big for him, knowing that his father was gone and there was _nothing he could do about it._ Between that and what had happened with the Carl Powers case, Sherlock had turned his back on magic, and the moment his wizardry was gone he had forgotten everything else that went along with it – his wonder at magic, Molly, all the time he’d spent with his father, all of it.

And in turning away from wizardry, he had turned away from the best parts of himself.

A hand closed on Sherlock’s shoulder, and he jumped, abruptly returning to reality. John was standing there with his hand on Sherlock’s shoulder, looking worried, while Lestrade stood beside him, looking concerned.

“Carl Powers,” Sherlock blurted out, feeling shaken and shocked. “The shoes – they need to be tested, but – the Carl Powers case. They’re the missing shoes.”

“What’s the Carl Powers case?” Lestrade asked in puzzlement. Sherlock tried to pull himself together.

“1989, a teenage boy drowned in a tragic accident during a swimming competition,” he explained, his mind still only half-there, the rest of him still stunned by the memories that had had just been unlocked. “He had some kind of fit in the water, and by the time they pulled him out it was too late. But there was something wrong; something I couldn’t get out of my head.”

“What?” John asked.

“His shoes,” Sherlock replied, and shook his head, feeling unnerved. “They weren’t there. I made a fuss; I tried to get the police interested, but nobody seemed to think it was important, and I was only a kid myself. He’d left all the rest of his clothes in his locker, but there was no sign of his shoes...” Sherlock trailed off. “Until now.”

Lestrade swore softly, but John was watching Sherlock.

“Are you alright?” he asked gently.

Sherlock started to shake his head again, then nodded.

“The locked chest in my memory palace,” he told John quietly. “Carl Powers was the key.”

“Oh!” John looked startled, and enlightened. Behind them, Lestrade was calling Donovan and the rest of the team to come down and see if there were any traces left by whoever had put the shoes in 221C.

“Is there anything I should know?” John asked carefully.

“Not now.” Sherlock shook his head, and tried to look more composed. “I’ll tell you later.”

He was looking forward to that moment, Sherlock realised. He wanted John to know about his childhood as a wizard, to share stories of his adventures, and hear John’s own tales. But he was on Ordeal right now, and it was more important to focus on what was going on.

Sherlock didn’t know if it was coincidence, that the bomber had chosen the Carl Powers case, or if they knew of Sherlock’s involvement. It was almost certain, now, that Carl Powers had been murdered; but by who, and how, Sherlock still needed to find out.

“What now?” John asked, after several minutes silence.

“Testing,” Sherlock replied. 

“Testing?”

“The _shoes,_ ” Sherlock enlightened John, mildly exasperated. “And hopefully, we’ll discover what, exactly, caused Carl Powers to drown.”  
 


	5. Chapter 5

“Clostridium botulinum!” Sherlock exclaimed, somewhat impressed despite himself. John stuck his head inside the room.

“What?”

“Clostridium botulinum,” Sherlock repeated. “It’s one of the deadliest poisons on the planet!”

John looked blank. Sherlock bit back a sigh and the insult that instantly sprang to mind, responding more moderately instead. It was easier to be less acerbic, now that the weight of his lost magic wasn’t always hanging over him. It was astonishing, how much of a difference having his magic back made to his temperament. It was as though part of him had been missing all this time, the part that was best able to deal with and understand people.

“Carl Powers,” he explained patiently.

Understanding swept over John’s face. About time, Sherlock thought uncharitably.

“Oh, wait, are you saying he was murdered with it?” John asked.

“Remember the shoelaces?” Sherlock asked in turn.

“Mmm.”

“The boy suffered from eczema. It’d be the easiest thing in the world to introduce the poison into his medication. Two hours later he comes up to London, the poison takes effect, paralyses the muscles and he drowns.” It was rather elegant, actually.

“What – how-how come the autopsy didn’t pick that up?” John spluttered.

“It’s virtually undetectable,” said Sherlock. “Nobody would have been looking for it. But there were still tiny traces of it left inside the trainers from where he put the cream on his feet.”

Sherlock crossed the room to where his manual was operating as an actual computer, for the moment. The internet browser was open at the forums page of Sherlock’s own website, and he posted a new message.

_ FOUND. Pair of trainers belonging to Carl Powers (1978-1989). Botulinum toxin still present. Apply 221B Baker St. _

“What are you doing?” John asked.

“Leaving a message for our bomber,” Sherlock replied.

John was silent for a moment.

“The killer kept the shoes all these years.”

“Yes.” Sherlock paused to look at John. “Meaning...”

“He’s our bomber, isn’t he?”

“Almost certainly. Yes.”

Over on the table, the pink phone rang suddenly. Sherlock hurried to answer it.

“ _Well done, you_ ,” sobbed the hostage. “ _Come and get me_.”

“Where _are_ you?” Sherlock asked, loudly and clearly. “Tell us where you are.”

The woman told him, and Sherlock immediately rang Lestrade and told him where the hostage was, before hanging up, frowning thoughtfully.

“What?” John wanted to know. “What is it?”

“I’m wondering,” said Sherlock, “what the next puzzle will be.”

“Wait,” John looked horrified, “there’s going to be _more?_ ”

“Unfortunately, yes.”

* * *

The tasks that followed the first one, for all they excited Sherlock intellectually, were wearying and stressful otherwise.

The temptation to get lost in them, to see them simply as stimulating puzzles was strong: it would have been so _easy_ to see the people involved as simply factors in the puzzle and nothing more.

But with an effort, Sherlock kept the human cost at the forefront of his mind, a reminder of who would suffer if he failed. It would have been easier to disregard them of course: Sherlock’s brain dealt best with intellectual curiosities, not sentiment. But Sherlock was a wizard, serving life and acting for life’s sake, and he knew instinctively that it was important for him never to lose sight of _why_ he was solving Moriarty’s little tasks. To get too caught up in the process, to forget the human lives at stake, would be a risk to Sherlock’s newly-regained wizardry.

Sherlock wasn’t a fool. This Ordeal wasn’t just about saving lives and dealing with Moriarty: it was about him, as well. It was about how he’d been after losing his wizardry and the person he’d grown into without it. It was about overcoming his own flaws, and getting back in touch with the emotions he had ruthlessly set aside for years.

The death of the elderly woman shook Sherlock badly. She should have been safe, but because she’d tried to give Sherlock information, she was dead. Sherlock felt like a failure, knowing he had failed to save her and anyone else killed or injured by the bomb. The feeling was crushing.

For just a moment Sherlock involuntarily allowed his face to show the shock and the terrible sorrow he felt. He composed himself a moment later: but Lestrade was staring at him, and from outside the office Donovan was looking at him like she’d never seen him before.

“Sherlock?” Lestrade asked, looking worried.

John had seen his face, too, and slipped forward to grasp Sherlock’s shoulder in support, wordlessly sharing Sherlock’s own grief and rage.

“I failed,” said Sherlock. While Lestrade cursed, John looked him in the eye.

“Sherlock.” Sherlock looked back at his friend, feeling hurt and furious and helpless, just as he had with the Carl Powers case years ago. “We’ll get him.”

Sherlock gave a deep breath, and pulled himself together.

“What happened?” Lestrade asked. “Did you get it wrong?”

Sherlock felt briefly offended, but the feeling soon died in the face of all his other emotions. He shook his head.

“She started to describe the bomber,” he said dully.

Lestrade hissed in a breath through his teeth in pained understanding.

“It’s not your fault,” John said, firmly but kindly.

“Of course it isn’t,” Sherlock snapped. “All she had to do was keep her mouth shut – I _told_ her not to tell me!” He closed his eyes, his emotions roiling, unable to achieve his usual detachment.

Lestrade informed the other members of Scotland Yard of what had happened while Sherlock tried to calm himself.

He turned and was about to leave Lestrade’s office when Donovan called out, “Not good enough this time, freak?”

Sherlock felt a moment’s fierce anger at the taunt, but Donovan was watching him closely to see how he responded.

Instead of bristling like an angry cat or shooting back a scathing retort, the way he usually did, Sherlock stopped and looked Donovan straight in the eyes, his expression solemn.

“Donovan.”

“What?” she snapped, looking wary. Sherlock tilted his head as he considered her.

“Despite what you think, and in spite of the way I act, I don’t enjoy the fact the someone has been killed,” he said quietly. “It’s not about the crime, it’s about solving it. I enjoy the puzzle of it, but it’s more than that. For years I searched for meaning in my life, to no avail – what use is genius if it can’t be _used?_ But solving murders gives me purpose, it makes me useful. I’m not good with people, or feelings; I stopped trying to be a long time ago. But I am good with puzzles, with mysteries, and the fact that I have trouble with emotions, including my own, makes me that much better at what I do. Yes, I’m delighted when there’s a murder, and sometimes I get too caught up in it, because solving it is something I can _do_ that no one else can. I don’t bother with the cases anyone can solve: the Met is already being paid for those. But the strange murders, the baffling crimes no one else can figure out – through those, I can make a _difference_ ,” Sherlock finished, his tone serious. “Next time you accuse me of ‘getting off’ on solving crime, bear in mind that solving mysteries is the only thing I do that _matters_.”

Sherlock gave Donovan a long, searching look, to see if she’d actually listened to any of what he’d just said.

Donovan looked utterly stunned, gaping like a fish out of water. Seeing this Sherlock nodded, satisfied that some of what he’d said had gotten through, and walked away without another word.

John didn’t say anything until they’d left the building.

“What’s gotten into you?” he finally asked. “I’ve never seen you behave like that before. Just now with Donovan – what was that all about?”

Sherlock looked sideways at him. John’s face was open, ready to listen, and yet there was a hint of speculation there – John had his own suspicions, it seemed.

Sherlock wondered how to put everything into words, feeling, for once, as though they hardly sufficed.

“For years, it felt like something was missing,” Sherlock admitted after a moment. “It felt as though I had a hollow space inside me that couldn’t be filled. The drugs didn’t help, but they did stop me from caring. The only thing which ever helped at all was the work, although I didn’t understand why. Even then, I couldn’t shake the sense of loss and sorrow that seemed to haunt me.”

“Because you used to be a wizard,” John concluded, as though he’d suspected this all along. His expression was kind. “I suppose the work is a form of errantry in itself, isn’t it?”

“Precisely,” Sherlock confirmed. “But it wasn’t wizardry.”

“But what happened?” John asked. “I know that people forget afterwards, when they stop being wizards – but what made you stop?”

Sherlock said nothing for a long time. John just waited patiently.

“The fact that no one would listen to me about Carl Powers, and then my father dying a couple of months later,” Sherlock eventually responded. John looked at him quickly, his face full of sympathy.

“I’ve never heard you mention your father before,” John said.

“He was a Senior wizard,” Sherlock explained. “After I lost my wizardry, I didn’t remember him particularly well.”

“I’m sorry,” said John softly. Sherlock shook his head.

“It’s fine. I remember him now.” He was silent for a moment. “I was always very close to him. Mycroft was always closer to Mummy.”

John waited to see if Sherlock said anything more, but Sherlock had shared enough of his feelings and didn’t plan on any more confidences. Instead he hailed a taxi and gave the cabbie the Baker St address, and he and John got into the cab and headed home.  
 


	6. Chapter 6

The explosion that Sherlock had failed to stop was all over the news that night. Twelve people had been killed in an explosion in an old block of flats. Sherlock was aware, intellectually, that he wasn’t to blame, but that was cold comfort under the circumstances. He had taken on the responsibility of stopping the bomber, and he had failed. 

He didn’t intend to fail again. But all he could do right now was wait for the bomber to get in touch with him again.

“Anything on the Carl Powers case?” John asked after a while.

Sherlock shook his head.

“Nothing. All the living classmates check out spotless. No connection.”

“Maybe the killer was older than Carl?” John suggested.

“The thought had occurred.”

John looked at Sherlock thoughtfully.

“So why’s he doing this, then – playing this game with you? Do you think he wants to be caught?”

Sherlock had already thought about this, and knew that John wasn’t going to like his conclusion.

“I think,” Sherlock said quietly, sombrely, “that he wants to be distracted.”

A short silence fell as the two of them contemplated Sherlock’s words. Even a week ago, Sherlock thought, he would have been largely delighted by all of this. But now, with all of his memories and his wizardry back, feeling like a new man now that all the missing spaces were filled in, Sherlock mostly felt disgust and sorrow and a cold, dark fury that he knew better than to give in to.

“You know,” said John suddenly, “I sort of can’t imagine you as a wizard. As a kid, I mean.”

Sherlock turned the TV off and turned to face John.

“You I can imagine quite easily,” he replied, and gave a small shrug. “I was quite different as a child, I suppose.”

“You’ve been different ever since you took the Oath, and even more so since you remembered everything,” John said softly. 

“It was like living half a life,” said Sherlock. “I was bitter, angry, and missing so much of myself. Everything that was strongly associated with my wizardry was suppressed, including the parts of my personality that developed with it. Overnight I became resentful, sulky, and deliberately difficult to deal with. Mummy and Mycroft must have thought it was simply a combination of grief and ordinary teenage temperament.” 

“ _You have one new message,_ ” said the pink phone. Sherlock leapt across to check it. The phone played a reduced version of the Greenwich Pips, and displayed a photograph showing a river bank. Sherlock’s eyes scanned it.

“View of the Thames,” he deduced, “South Bank – somewhere between Southwark Bridge and Waterloo.” He reached into his jacket for his own phone and began an internet search, ignoring the small multitude of messages from Mycroft requesting status updates on the case of the dead public service. “You check the papers; I’ll search online.”

John nodded, and the two of them began to search for clues to solving Moriarty’s latest puzzle.

* * *

Sherlock knew that the painting was a fake. He _knew_ it, but unless he had the proof, he was going to fail a second time. That was unacceptable.

“It’s a fake,” he said aloud, staring at the painting. “It _has_ to be.”

“That painting has been subjected to every test known to science,” the painting’s owner sniffed haughtily.

”It’s a very _good_ fake, then,” Sherlock replied scathingly. He glared at her. “You _know_ about this, don’t you? This is _you_ , isn’t it?”

The woman turned to Lestrade, looking exasperated.

“Inspector, my time is being wasted. Would you mind showing yourself and your friends out?”

Before Lestrade could answer, the pink phone rang from Sherlock’s pocket. He snatched it out and answered the call, his heart hammering.

_ “ _ The painting is a fake,” Sherlock announced. There was no reply, only the sound of breathing. “It’s a fake,” Sherlock repeated. “That’s why Woodbridge and Cairns were killed.”

There was still no answer from the person on the other end of the phone.

”Oh, come on!” said Shelrock desperately. “Proving it’s just the detail. The painting is a fake. I’ve solved it. I’ve figured it out. It’s a fake! That’s the answer. That’s why they were killed.”

The silence on the other end of the phone continued, and Sherlock took a deep breath, his mind racing.

”Okay, I’ll prove it,” he said as calmly as he could. “Give me time. Will you give me time?”

There was a moment’s agonising pause. Then:

“ _Ten_ ,” a young boy’s voice said, trembling with fear, and Sherlock’s heart lurched, even as he spun to look again at the painting, searching for some clue he’d missed earlier.

“It’s a kid,” Lestrade said, sounding as though he’d been hit. “Oh, God, it’s a _kid_!”

“It’s a countdown. He’s giving me time,” Sherlock explained grimly, barely paying attention.

Lestrade swore, sounding devastated.

”The painting is a fake, but how can I prove it?” Sherlock asked aloud. “How? _How?”_

He’d already checked for signs such as the brush strokes and pigmentation, the state of the canvas, Vermeer’s style, everything. What was the sign? What was he still _missing?_

“ _Eight_ ,” said the boy on the phone. Sherlock spun to glare fiercely at the painting’s owner. 

“This kid will die,” he said harshly, overflowing with frustration and anger. “ _Tell_ me why the painting is a fake. _Tell me!_ ”

“ _Seven._..”

The painting’s owner opened her mouth, looking alarmed and upset.

”No, shut up,” Sherlock said, scowling. “Don’t say anything. It only works if I figure it out.” He gazed at the painting. “Must be possible. Must be staring me in the face.”

“ _Six_...”

“Come _on_ ,” John muttered under his breath, sounding as desperate as Sherlock felt.

“Woodbridge knew, but _how_?” Sherlock continued to ask himself questions aloud. The only real hobby the man had possessed was amateur astronomy, nothing to do with art…

“ _Five_...” said the boy on the phone, sounding terrified.

“It’s speeding up!” Lestrade exclaimed.

“Sherlock,” John said urgently, as though Sherlock wasn’t just as aware of the countdown as he was, but what was Sherlock supposed to do, he had nothing, his eyes swept over the painting for the _n_ th time, looking for something, some clue…

And landed on three tiny dots painted onto the Vermeer’s nightscape. His mind flashed back to the planetarium audio he’d heard earlier, and…

“Oh!” Sherlock exclaimed, breaking into a grin of delighted relief as he realised that he _had it_. “Yes! That’s it! Oh, that’s brilliant!”

“ _Two…_ ”

Sherlock brought the pink phone up to his mouth.

“The Van Buren Supernova!” he yelled into it. There was a heart-stopping moment where nothing happened, and then –

“ _Please. Is somebody there?_ ” the boy asked tremulously, and Sherlock almost fainted in relief. “ _Somebody help me!_ ”

Sherlock wordlessly handed the phone to Lestrade, who immediately began reassuring the kid and asking where he was.

“You did it,” said John, sounding just as relieved. “You did it.”

“Yes,” said Sherlock. “I did.”

His phone bleeped, and Sherlock checked it for messages.

_ My patience is wearing thin. Mycroft Holmes _

Sherlock rolled his eyes, and called to John.

“What?” John called back.

“Mycroft’s case,” Sherlock said, sighing. “The top-secret one.”

“Oh,” said John. “I’d forgotten about that.”

“I hadn’t,” said Sherlock. “Come on.”


	7. Chapter 7

Despite the fact that Mycroft’s dead public servant had been found on the tracks at Battersea Station with his head smashed in, there had been very little blood left on the tracks. Moreover, he hadn’t had any kind of train ticket with him. The body had been found at the section where the points changed and one of the tracks slid away in another direction, which suggested, to Sherlock, that Mr West hadn’t caught the train – that indeed, he hadn’t even been alive at the time.

Sherlock and John left the station, and Sherlock explained the situation to John, who listened intently.

“The missile defence plans haven’t left the country, otherwise Mycroft’s people would have heard about it. Despite what people think, we do still have a Secret Service.”

“Yeah, I know,” John said dryly. “I’ve met them.”

“Which means,” Sherlock continued, “whoever stole the memory stick can’t sell it or doesn’t know what to do with it. My money’s on the latter. We’re here.”

“Where?” John questioned. Sherlock ignored him, walking up the driveway and up the stairs to flat 21A, where he began picking the lock.

“Sherlock!” John protested. “What if there’s someone in?”

“There isn’t,” Sherlock replied. 

The flat belonged to the brother of Mr West’s fiancé, and was suspiciously close to the train line on which Mr West’s body had been found. If Sherlock’s deductions were correct…

Sherlock finished picking the lock and opened the door, John following him inside as he walked into the flat’s living room. Sherlock went straight to the window, and smiled at what he saw outside. Just outside the window was a one-storey extension; it would be easy for someone to climb through the window and onto the roof of the extension. The extension ran all the way down to the bottom of the garden, and on the other side of the garden wall was the railway line.

Given the building’s layout, it would have been easy for someone to climb out the window dragging a body, take it down to the edge of the extension, and simply topple it onto a passing train. From there, the body would have been carried on the roof of the train until it hit the points and changed direction: at that point, given the speed of the body, it would have slid off the roof of the train in the original direction of travel, and fallen straight onto the tracks.

“Where are we?” John asked, with a mix of curiosity and resignation. Sherlock grinned.

“Oh, sorry, didn’t I say?” he responded innocently. “Joe Harrison’s flat.”

“Joe...?” John looked blank.

“Brother of West’s fiancée,” Sherlock supplied, and practically saw the light bulb flicker on above John’s head as understanding hit him. “ _He_ stole the memory stick; killed his prospective brother-in-law.”

“Then why’d he do it?” John wondered.

There was the sound of a key turning in a lock, and Sherlock and John both stood and turned to face the door.

“Let’s ask him,” Sherlock suggested.

* * *

It turned out to be the usual story; Harrison had seen an opportunity to make a profit by selling the memory stick without thinking things through, West had confronted him, there had been a scuffle, and Harrison had given West a fatal shove down the steps. Harrison had panicked, and on the spot had come up with an easy plan to dispose of the body without, he thought, anyone ever finding out what he had done.

Sherlock felt nothing but disgust as the man snivelled over what his sister would say when she discovered the truth.

“Do you still have it, then? The memory stick?” John asked. Harrison nodded miserably.

“Fetch it for me – if you wouldn’t mind,” Sherlock added sarcastically.

With a sigh, Harrison walked away into another room to collect the memory stick.

“Well,” said Sherlock. “Now that’s solved, back to dealing with Moriarty.”

“Well,” John pointed out reasonably, if rather over-optimistically, “maybe that’s over, too. We’ve heard nothing from the bomber.”

Sherlock shook his head regretfully.

“Five pips, remember, John? It’s a countdown. We’ve only had four.”

Harrison returned and reluctantly handed over the memory stick, which Sherlock tucked away into a pocket.

“Thank you, Mr Harrison. Expect the police around within the next half-hour or so,” Sherlock said dryly, and left, John following behind him.

Later that evening the two of them sat in front of the TV at 221B, doing their best to stay warm despite the cold air coming in through the broken windows. Sherlock was wearing his coat even though he was inside, and John was wearing a slightly more-absurd-than-usual jumper with tiny bobbles on it, which, he had defensively assured Sherlock, was very warm and comfortable.

“According to the manual, you’re still on Ordeal,” John said soberly, sipping at the cup of tea he’d just made. 

“As I said, there’s still one pip to go,” said Sherlock.

He was fairly certain that the last move in Moriarty’s twisted game was up to him, and that what Moriarty wanted was the memory stick he had retrieved from Harrison. Whatever happened, Sherlock was fairly certain that allowing Moriarty to get his hands on the memory stick was a bad idea, which meant that he would be meeting Moriarty empty-handed. 

What Sherlock wasn’t sure of was whether he should tell John what he was doing next. John would be concerned about Sherlock’s safety and probably insist on coming along in spite of his disapproval of the plan, which would put him in danger as well.

On the other hand, John had been listed as Sherlock’s backup for his Ordeal, which seemed to indicate that Sherlock was probably going to need him.

“Alright.” John accepted this. “Listen, I’m going to nip down to the shops for some milk – I used the last of it in the tea. I’ll be back in twenty minutes, but if you get another text or call or something, ring me and I’ll come straight back.”

“Noted,” said Sherlock. 

John finished his tea, and walked over to collect his coat and wallet. Sherlock watched him go, and pondered his next move.

Twenty minutes later, John still wasn’t home. Half an hour later and Sherlock was becoming concerned. Forty minutes later, and Sherlock was cursing the fact that he’d let John go out alone.

Stupid, _stupid_ – the long final pip, of _course_ this one was different, more personal – the crescendo of the piece. And who better to take hostage than the one person Sherlock patently cared about? In that respect, John was perfect.

Snarling to himself, Sherlock used his manual to open up an internet browser. Bringing up the forum on his website and starting a new thread, Sherlock typed, 

_ Found. The Bruce-Partington plans. _ _Please collect_. He considered for a moment, and added, _The Pool. Midnight,_ and posted the message to the forum.

Sherlock closed the browser, and regarded his manual.

“Manual. Do you have a name?”

There was a short pause before the manual answered, sounding vaguely embarrassed.

“Rex. The first of us was named Spot, you see.”

Sherlock sighed. 

“I suppose someone thought that was funny.”

“Probably,” the manual agreed. “Is there something I can do for you?”

“Yes,” said Sherlock. “I want to program a spell, to activate later.”

“What are the parameters?”

“Well…”  
 


	8. Chapter 8

At midnight that night, Sherlock walked into the room with the indoor swimming pool, a small backpack at his back. He stopped by the side of the pool and turned, trying to see into the gallery above his head, but the area was in darkness and try as me might, Sherlock couldn’t see a thing. Giving up, he turned back towards the relatively well-lit pool, and held up the memory stick he’d brought with him.

“Brought you a little getting-to-know-you present,” he announced loudly “Oh, that’s what it’s all been for, hasn’t it? All your little puzzles; making me dance – all to distract me from _this_.”

As he spoke Sherlock turned, looking around the vast room. He heard a door open behind him and turned back quickly, to see a stony-faced John walk in, wearing a large jacket… large enough, Sherlock knew, to cover a semtex vest.

“Evening,” John said levelly, and Sherlock felt a gust of absolute rage that someone had put him in this position, risked John like this. 

“John,” he greeted his friend evenly.

“This is a turn-up, isn’t it, Sherlock?” said John, his voice still carefully level, but Sherlock could see the tenseness in his friend’s expression, which only made him angrier. “Bet you never saw this coming.”

“Really?” Sherlock asked loudly. “You kidnapped my flatmate on his way to get milk, and you didn’t expect me to _notice?_ That would be rather unobservant of me, don’t you think?”

As Sherlock watched, John pulled his hands from his pockets and unzipped the jacket he was wearing to reveal, as Sherlock had expected, a set of explosives strapped to his chest. A sniper’s dot immediately appeared, hovering over the explosives, ready to kill John and detonate the bomb. Sherlock’s hands clenched.

“What,” John asked haltingly, “would you like me... to make him say... next? Gottle o’ gear... gottle o’ gear... gottle o’ gear,” John’s carefully level voice almost broke on the last repetition.

“Stop it!” Sherlock snarled. He met John’s eyes, and saw the look of fear and worry in them.

“Nice touch, this,” John added despairingly, continuing to parrot the bomber’s words. “The pool where little Carl died. I stopped him.” John cringed slightly as he spoke the next sentence. “I can stop John Watson too. Stop his heart.”

Sherlock wanted to scream and rage at that last part, but he kept control of himself, turning furiously, trying to spot the mysterious Moriarty somewhere in the darkness. He had to be here.

“Who _are_ you?” Sherlock asked, still trying to keep his voice even. It took effort.

“I gave you my number,” someone called out in a falsetto, “I thought you might call.”

A slim, dark-haired man in a very well-cut suit wandered out, hands in pockets.

“Jim Moriarty,” he introduced himself casually. “Hi!”

Sherlock exchanged a flicker of a glance with John, before looking back at Moriarty, keeping the gun aimed firmly at the other man.

_ *Eldest, fairest and fallen,*  _ Sherlock said in the Speech. _*Greetings, and defiance.*_

Something in Moriarty’s eyes and posture changed a little; he smiled.

“Sherlock Holmes,” said the Lone Power. “A wizard again. How surprising. I thought _you_ turned away from that path years ago.”

“Times change,” said Sherlock. “You should know.”

The Lone Power smiled again, and there was something self-satisfied in its expression.

“True.” Its eyes slid to John. “And _you,_ you annoying thorn in my side. A chance to be rid of you at last.”

_ *Eldest, fairest and fallen,*  _ John responded grimly. _*Greetings and defiance.*_

“John,” Sherlock said tightly. “Try and get that vest off.”

“As though that will do you any good,” said the Lone Power, doing nothing to stop John from tearing the vest off. “There’s enough semtex there to take out this building.”

John got free of the vest and flung it away from him.

“Alright?” Sherlock asked him.

“Fine,” said John tersely, his expression strained. Sherlock felt much the same.

“It’s a pity you decided to be a wizard again,” said the Lone Power. “Are you sure it’s going to do you much good? You and Mr Moriarty are awfully alike.”

Sherlock flinched slightly in spite of himself.

“Don’t tell me you don’t see it,” the Lone Power added softly, persuasively. “Both of you, brilliant and alone, so far above the dull, ordinary minds that surround you, unable to relate to them, yearning for something truly interesting to captivate you.”

“Sherlock, don’t listen to him,” John said fiercely, but Sherlock couldn’t help it.

“You play very well at being a wizard, I’m sure,” continued the Lone Power, “but when Moriarty’s puzzles started turning up you relished the challenge, didn’t you? All those lives in danger, and you enjoyed the situation anyway.”

Sherlock’s determination faltered. It was true: while Sherlock had worried about the people being subjected to Moriarty’s game, part of him had delighted in the puzzle, the part of his mind which dealt only in the abstract. The Lone Power was right – 

_ *You are not like him!*  _ John said in the Speech, and Sherlock stared, stunned. Only truth could be spoken in the Speech, which meant…

_ *You are not like him,*  _ John repeated stubbornly. _*Nothing like him, understand? You spend all your time on errantry even it’s not always the wizardly kind, and you’re constantly working to help people. You might have trouble getting in touch with your feelings sometimes, but you do have them, and you don’t try and hurt anyone unless they try it first. You’re brave and you’re principled in your own way, you try and do no harm, and you care about me and Mrs Hudson, and you cared when you couldn’t save those people in time. So you are nothing like Moriarty, Sherlock. It’s just trying to pull you in.*_

Sherlock took a deep breath, feeling unexpectedly shaky at John’s declaration.

The Lone Power scowled.

“You don’t honestly _believe_ him, do you?” 

Sherlock steadied his arm, still pointing the gun at the Lone Power.

“No one can lie in the Speech,” he said. “I refuse to give your words power over me. John understands me better than you ever will, and I believe him.” Sherlock found himself speaking with conviction, buoyed by John’s faith in him. “I’ve listened to you for too long. Because it _was_ you, wasn’t it? That little voice deep in my heart telling me that wizardry was useless, that people weren’t worth the bother and would never understand me.”

“Clever,” said the Lone Power.

“Was I really that important?” Sherlock drawled. The Lone Power’s laugh was triumphant.

“Oh, Sherlock. You have no idea, do you? You were powerful, and determined, and you could have been great. Instead you turned away from wizardry, and wasted all the best years of your life. I think I’ve won there, don’t you?”

“You haven’t won anything yet,” John broke in, and Sherlock’s heart swelled at his friend’s steadfast loyalty. “Sherlock got his wizardry back, remember?”

“And what good does it do him?” the Lone Power inquired. “He’s more powerful than most his age, but can he stop the bullets from all my snipers? Can he stop _me?_ ”

“I’m sure I can find some way to deal with your snipers,” said Sherlock dryly. “They’re hardly on _your_ level, are they?”

The Lone Power smiled coldly.

“Are you planning something nefarious against my snipers? Surely not. You wouldn’t want all those innocent deaths on your hands, would you?”

“Anyone working with you isn’t innocent,” said Sherlock, edging back towards the pool. John edged back as well.

The Lone Power laughed.

“You can’t get away, boys. My snipers will have you down in an instant.” Sherlock glanced at John surreptitiously, and saw the same knowledge written on John’s face that was on his own. “Shooting me isn’t going to work, for the same reason,” the Lone Power continued. “Really, anything you might do has already crossed my mind.”

“Let’s test that,” said Sherlock. “Rex, run program ‘Return to Sender’.”

In Sherlock’s bag, the manual said “Agreed,” and activated the spell that Sherlock had programmed into it earlier.

It felt like something had knocked Sherlock down and flattened him as the spell took hold. Time stopped, or seemed to.

Sherlock felt the spell burn through him like a candle flame through tissue paper, eating up years and years of his life, as it opened up a worldgate to the one place it shouldn’t have been possible to.

But Sherlock had asked about those coordinates out of pure curiosity, just once, years ago, during a dream that wasn’t a dream, and for whatever reason he had been given an answer. He had also been told he cost of opening such a gate. At the time he assumed that this was to discourage him from doing so; now, he wondered if this moment had been foreseen.

John caught Sherlock as he collapsed, looking frightened for him, but Sherlock’s eyes were on the Lone Power. Moriarty’s mouth opened in a silent scream as the light and space around him warped and twisted, and then…

The lone Power was gone, and Moriarty alone stood there, blinking, unaware that anything out of the ordinary had just happened.

Under John’s support, Sherlock staggered upright again, training John’s gun on Moriarty a second time.

“What did you do?” John hissed under his breath. Sherlock managed a slight grin.

“Sent It back to Timeheart,” he said wryly.

John gaped in shock. A spell like that would have required years of Sherlock’s life to power it, perhaps even decades.

“ _You what?_ ”

“Boys,” Moriarty interrupted mockingly. “I’m feeling a little ignored here.” 

“So sorry,” said Sherlock, and before Moriarty could react pushed John behind him so that the two of them were teetering at the edge of the pool, lowered the gun to aim at the semtex vest not far from Moriarty’s feet, and fired.

He felt John yank him backwards in the same instant, a shield going up around them as they fell, and a wall of heat and light and sound roared past Sherlock just as he hit the water. Sherlock felt John pull him down deeper, as fire raged above the surface of the water and debris rained down around them.

Sherlock found John’s hand in the water and held it, his lungs protesting the lack of air. Running the calculations through inside his head, thinking the Speech as loudly and clearly as he could, Sherlock managed to fill John’s shield with air, so that he and John were sitting in a small self-contained air bubble at the bottom of the pool. Even such a relatively simple spell almost flattened him again, after all the energy he’d expended earlier.

Sherlock’s breath left him in a rush, and he heard John exhale explosively next to him, breathing in gratefully. Sherlock looked at John. It was hard to tell in the uneven light filtering down through the water, but John seemed unharmed.

“Are you alright?” Sherlock whispered.

“Fine,” John whispered back, squeezing his hand reassuringly. “How much air have we got?”

“A couple of minutes worth,” Sherlock replied. “Then we’ll need to surface.”

“Do you think we got him?” John asked.

“I don’t know. Hopefully, yes.”

Sherlock pulled out his phone; by some miracle, it was still working despite its trip through the water.

_ Moriarty set off another bomb. Snipers present. Send help.  _ Sherlock texted to both Mycroft and Lestrade, along with the address. A moment later the screen flickered out, and the phone went dead. Sherlock cursed, and stuck it back in his pocket.

“Good idea,” John murmured; he’d read the texts over Sherlock’s shoulders as he typed. He was holding his gun. Sherlock wondered when that had happened, and realised that John had taken it off him while he was working the spell for their bubble of atmosphere.

“We need to surface,” Sherlock said, as their breathable oxygen was almost gone. John nodded.

Sherlock ended the spell, and the water burst over the two of them. Together Sherlock and John kicked off towards the surface of the pool. There was fire raging in the ruins of the pool complex, but the air above the pool itself was relatively clear. 

Sherlock added his own shield spell to John’s, in case some of Moriarty’s snipers had survived (unlikely, but best to guard against that contingency). The two of them stayed there, huddled in the darkness of the water, until Mycroft’s people and the police arrived.

At that point Sherlock quietly, gratefully passed out.


	9. Chapter 9

Afterwards they sat together in the ambulance, wrapped in blankets, as Moriarty’s body and the bodies of several snipers were carried out of the wreckage. Sherlock watched, and felt only relief that it was all over, and that he and John had escaped unscathed.

“Well,” said John beside him, “that was definitely an Ordeal.”

It wasn’t really funny, but Sherlock found himself laughing almost hysterically, John breaking into uncontrollable giggles as the realisation that things had turned out okay swept over them.

“Are you two alright?” Lestrade appeared in front of them, looking worried.

“We’re fine,” Sherlock assured him.

“It’s just, this was not what I expected when I went out for milk this afternoon,” John added, and giggled some more.

Lestrade looked sympathetic and understanding.

“The medics said you two somehow managed to survive the explosion without injury. Bloody lucky, both of you.”

“Yeah.” John shivered, and Sherlock pressed his shoulder against John’s, remembering how much danger they’d been in.

“Very,” Sherlock agreed soberly.

John bumped his shoulder companionably, and Sherlock gave him a small smile.

“We’ll get your statements tomorrow,” said Lestrade, “after the way Sherlock fainted, I want the two of you to have time to recover.”

“He hasn’t really been eating or sleeping properly,” John explained. “He’s been too busy working against the bomber.” Sherlock frowned at him. Lestrade sighed.

“Definitely don’t come in until tomorrow, then. All right, you two. I’m glad you’re okay.”

“So are we,” said Sherlock dryly, listing into John a little. He was still feeling exhausted and wrung-out from earlier.

Lestrade disappeared again, and Sherlock glanced at John.

“Go ahead.” 

“What?”

“Say it. Tell me that I shouldn’t have done that spell.”

John went tense, but he didn’t say anything for a little while, as though thinking about what he wanted to say.

“Much as I’d like to,” he said eventually, “I don’t think you really had much of a choice, did you? Thanks, by the way. For saving my life.”

Sherlock felt uncomfortable, and said nothing. What else could he possibly have done?

Something of his feelings must have shown on his face, because John smiled softly, then nudged him, grinning.

“Well, congratulations.” He put on a truly awful fake accent. “ _Yer a wizard, Harry_!”

“Why are you putting on that atrocious accent?” Sherlock asked, frowning at him in concern.

“Harry Potter?” said John. “No? Really? Oh, come on! It’s only been _everywhere_ – you really don’t know _Harry Potter_ , Sherlock?”

“I assume that this is some pop-culture phenomenon of which I am unaware,” Sherlock responded haughtily. John just shook his head incredulously.

“Well, I was congratulating you on passing your Ordeal, but now I think I really need to mock you for not knowing Harry Potter.”

John duly began teasing him, and Sherlock responded in kind, smiling.

They were both alive, intact, and wizards; Moriarty was dead, and the Lone Power was banished. They could, Sherlock thought, afford a little silliness.

**Author's Note:**

> I need to thank the people over at myriadwords, the Young Wizards livejournal community, for helping me to sort out the scene with Moriarty.
> 
> Also, the idea of Sherlock rediscovering wizardry came from ameretrifle's story _Journey's Dawn._ You should go read it.


End file.
